Mr. Evans, who helped establish Creative Writing at CFS, leaves us this term to start a new chapter of his life in Scotland. Read some of the pieces written in tribute to him.

IntroductionBy Shannon Harris & Sevilay Houssein

Dear Mr Evans,

​We remember the first time walking into you creative writing lesson as if it was yesterday. Not only was this a new subject and experience for us all but we were in a room filled with people we had never met before and you made this genuinely awkward experience as comfortable and welcoming as possible. Never did we think creative writing would be this fun but with an energetic and passionate teacher as yourself how could it not be. With your waving hands and endless accents how could we ever find your lessons boring? This year has flown by faster than you’d ever imagine and not only is it the end of the school year it is now a goodbye to you Mr Evans everyone’s favourite Welsh teacher. I don’t think you realise how much of an impact and how upset everyone is about you leaving. Not just the students you teach but also the students you have interacted with in the past. Thank you for making the year so unique. Without you we could never know the true meaning of what effect a powerful piece of writing can really have. You’ll be hugely missed best of luck in the future with your newly formed family. Scotland has gained an asset.

Love you loads, your one and only Creative Writing class

​A little boy who lived One Year without a name.Dedicated to Baby Evans-MackintoshBy Emerald Bailey

‘The time has come to retrieve the results of the naming…’ calls out Mr Evans.Mr Evans grips the hand of his wife; she fiddles with his thumbs while she rocks the un-named baby boy in her beautifully freckled arm. The baby boy’s focus is fixed upon the dummy dribbling out of his gummy mouth. The crowd begin the whisper in excitement as Mr Evans plunges his hand into the bottom of the giant crystal urn filled to the rim with crispy white paper each perfectly folded, twice. He thanks the Kingdom for attending the ceremony before obliviously pinching a single piece of paper out the urn. As he slowly unfolds his baby boy’s fate in front of everyone, he doubts whether he will even like the name. But it’s tradition, he tells himself. It’s all going to turn out well. The crowd’s eyes fixate on this one precious piece of paper as their heads slowly lead forward. Mr Evans can feel his wife peering over his shoulder and the grip she had on his forearm getting tighter. Mr Evans clears his throat and reads the name out to the entire Kingdom. ‘_______, our baby boys name is ______ Evans-Mackintosh.’

You have reached the end of this story but Baby Evans-Mackintosh’s story has just begun.

​EvansBy Rose Bailey

Between lessons he nipped between the students swivelling his hips right and back again to make his frame as thin as possible, much easier to slip through. His eye remained agitated by a ringlet flickering in his eyelash that had escaped a head of curls overloaded with gel. Evans’s pace was rapid amongst the schools midday madness and the flow of people streaming from one lesson to another offered him a chance to release a brief “Hello”, from a never seen mouth hidden beneath a wiry beard sprouting ginger tufts, to familiar faces ascending the stairs and corridor. The impossible to Evans would be leaving the house not dressed in a pullover and leather belt fastened so the trousers that he wore would not fall due to his constant movement, whether it be a purposeful stride from Chingford to Walthamstow or wild bodily gestures performed whilst teaching. There is no doubt that the arrival of his own first child in Scotland will keep his toes pattering around as they have been at Chingford School, but at bed time, when he is given the opportunity to read so many prepared lullabies and perfectly crafted stories of his own, maybe Evans will be seen sitting still, with only the motion of pages turning.

​PoemsBy Molly Dunham

Why I will miss you Hi sir, how are you?Can I have the books please?While completing the task, we just chat.Chat about our weekend, or about an event that has happened.When I’m upset,Or simply angry at lifeI come to you.Because you listen.You listen to me ranting all the time.You listen.You don’t turn me away.You give me advice.You cheer me up and make me laugh.You understand.You care.You help me every step of the way.So thank you for everything you have helped me achieve.Thank you for being there for me.

Your Teaching StyleYou stand there in front of us,With your actions speaking for you.Arms raising, Hands frantically darting,The excitement building in your voice,Spreading your enthusiasm around the room.We are engaged.Inspired. To achieve our best.With your critical constructive feedbackAnother perspective.An in-depth reflective perspective.To allow us to create,Pride and surpriseWhen we continue with our writer’s journey.Unfortunately, your Creative Writing journey with us have come to end.Don’t worry,Our critical constructive feedbackOn your creationWill allow us to have revenge!Seriously though,Thanks for everything.Even the little references you sometimes sneak in.And the story time stool,Which you want to take with you.To remember usAnd our writing to.We allHope you live a happy life in ScotlandWith your newly formed family.

There,That’s another chapter finished.

What’s a good opening sentence for the next one?

By Joseph Hallam

Thank you, Mr Robyn Evans.You’ve made this year so much better than I thought it could be. You’ve made me fall in love with writing in a way I didn’t think possible, and I will be forever grateful for that.When I wrote my first piece for you, I lacked confidence, fluidity and honesty not only in my writing, but in my life as a whole. You have helped me change and develop myself into the type of man I can be proud of, the type of man that I can look at in the mirror and honestly say knows where he’s going in life, the type of man who can be happy in himself.I wish you all the best in your future endeavours, in your new life in Scotland, and with the new life that you’ve created. You’re going to be a great father, I’m sure of it. (Just make sure you listen to your kid!)One of the things that I’ve struggled most with this year in your class is creating a happy ending, but in sight of your very own happy ending, here’s one of mine:

***

Finding HerAs I step through the translucent tobacco cloud, out of Oxford Circus Tube Station, my shoulders roughly nudged by distressed Christmas shoppers, I struggle to grasp at the memory of our meeting place.

​I could be at home. I could be listening to Wizard for the hundredth time on my radio, watching Ben Hur or the Nightmare Before Christmas or the Grinch, with my grandmother. I could be attempting to sneak in a few microwaved pigs-in-blankets out of the kitchen without anyone noticing, or sipping eggnog that’s just slightly too alcoholic.

But no. I’m here, with the grey skies and fake snow, the dirty pigeons cruising low over my head and the less than festive scent of spicy Japanese curries in my nostrils. Because I have to meet her.

I remember it now; we were supposed to meet on the corner of Regent Street. But as I scoured the intersection for a shot of her brightly coloured hair or the orange freckles of her face, I met the realisation that each corner of the junction had three things in common: they were packed all the way from the walls and doors of the buildings to the edge of the pavement with shoppers, bustling about their business; they were inhabited by at least two charity muggers (as she often referred to them), swinging heir Christmas bells; she wasn’t there.

It’s been nearly ten minutes now. I don’t know why she would bail on me like this. There could be a multitude of reasons. It’s entirely feasible for her to have been in a train accident, or maybe a lorry had clipped her while crossing the road. Maybe she simply had a heart attack, it’s happened to people younger than us before. But out of these horrific thoughts that dash across my mind, trying to explain her absence, the one that scares me the most above all else is the idea that she just didn’t care.

I glance down at my phone as it briefly buzzes in my hand. Turn around if you’re hungry for chips and chicken nuggets. I spin on my heel, a grin growing on my face as I look down and see her just inches away from me, her phone in one hand, holding a crumpled, grease-splattered McDonalds paper bag and a cup holder with two tall milkshakes. Her pink lips slurp on the straw sticking out of the top of hers, as she drops her phone back into her bag.

An awkward, one-armed hug, during which I manage to relieve her of the bag and the other milkshake, we begin our day hand in hand, far cheerier than I expect to be.

2 AMBy Hana Hussein

The sound of the door slamming shut reverberated heavily around the shop. If music had been playing then the emptiness would’ve been filled, but it seems that the radio station fades out after the night has reached a certain point of darkness. Vernon was alone, standing next to the Babybels with a carton of semi-skimmed milk in his hand at 2AM when he heard a metallic scrape across the floor. The piercing sound hit his teeth as it went, and the footsteps that fell heavily next to the anonymous object pounded against Vernon’s eardrums.

He waited for the alarms, for the police sirens, for the cashier to notice that a new presence had set off the bell that hangs above the door. As the object shifted through the aisles, Vernon twisted and turned his mind over. Option one would be to hide, run around the aisles and perhaps find solace in between racks of clothes. It dragged passed the cat food, and option two would be to stand his ground, defy anyone who threatened him, deceive them into thinking his pajamas and Fluffy slippers were any sort of powerful. Through the washing up section, and Vernon’s heart was stumbling. Option three would be to hope that the intruder ignored him, perhaps direction whatever he wielded towards the Babybels next to him, sympathizing with Vernon’s innocence, maybe even directing their attention towards the cashier instead. The boisterous screech of metal on floor was louder than ever, with the occasional clatter and crash of it barging past the shelves, passing the fruit and vegetables, and Vernon scolded himself for his thought process.

When the tip of a boot rounded the corner, the milk carton fell to the floor and burst as Vernon’s hands shook above his head.Next a knee, clad in dark green, and he swallowed a whimper.

A man’s face rose to meet his and behind his eyes, Vernon imagined bitter and merciless cruelty.

​A mop rounded the corner, deftly handled by the stranger and turned on its head to meet the floor, and both people stilled. The stranger’s eyes fell to the puddle of semi-skimmed milk that pooled around Vernon’s slippers and let out a gentle sigh.

The Elixir of DeathBy The Yellow Pangolin

It happened ever since that cold October day, the brown rotting leaves of death rained down across the muddy streets, I was only 9 at the time, yet the sensation of blood in my mouth is now all too familiar. I skipped along the concrete path where the elderly man had fallen, as I helped him up holding him by the now freshly scared hand full of grit and blood I shuddered as the blood smudged on my fingers, my kind act had left me with his essence in my hands, he had been calling for help for hours if I simply chose to ignore him his life would have been taken by the night. I skipped away as quickly as I had come to help, obsessed with the fresh red drops of life in my palms. I lifted my then small hands to my cheeks and felt the cool sensation of the liquid ruby, as I got more curious I grew braver. I finally lifted my fingers to my mouth and poured the crimson liquor down my throat. The taste was indescribable, the coppery taste to the smooth yet thick texture enveloped itself in satisfaction, the juicy flavour, it was the cursed, the immoral, and the taboo it was the elixir of life. From my first taste I was possessed by its mystical properties. As soon as the discovery came about I took a long kitchen knife out the cupboard testing it on my arm. The blade was long and ridged, used only for tender meaty stake, as I tore into my flesh I shrieked in pain until I saw the spoils of my labour leak out of me like sinking ship. I lapped up the blood as if I were a cat grooming myself. I immediately spat it out, the flavour, the taste, It was all wrong, I suddenly realised my own blood would not satisfy my insatiable appetite I had to hunt for more. At every football match I would always help you up, whenever you hurt yourself it was I who carried you to the medical bay, whenever an accident occurred I was always there to help you, as you unwillingly helped me. I was trusted, loved and satisfied. Time went on, people grew more observant to their surroundings, there was little to no scraped knees with the red honey trickling down the trunks of their legs. No more mashed up palms for me to hold, as their life fell into my hands, there was no more pain for me to enjoy. As my prey evolved so did I, I would appear at every new “accident”, my foot would always be out, after a while I was hated, alienated, starved. I knew simple injuries couldn’t satisfy me forever, my ever growing appetite begged for greater amounts each day. It was 19 years since my first taste of life and it was not my last, I live in my private oasis at Snt.Bernards hospital, new patients arrive every day, but my hunger controls me and as some days go slow, my unfortunate prey must be sacrificed whether it is an unplugged respirator or the wrong allergy pills, the elixir which I search for is constant, the elixir of life, from the bodies of the dead.

He GazedBy Lewis Richmond

He gazed aimlessly at the concrete, decorated with the makeup of hopscotch, through the window of his second floor classroom. It wasn’t clear to him whether he was still clinging to his mug of coffee or whether the warmth of the ceramic cylinder had merged into his grip acting as some kind of glue. It didn’t matter, he thought, after all he was still holding it.He thought of holding, as the transparent glass – glazed with a clear plastic for protection (though protection from what he wasn’t entirely sure)- showed him children with shirts un-tucked, blazers tarnished and big smiling faces contagiously spreading across the playground. As he held his warm coffee, thinking of holding, he saw before him the power of letting go.But I guess, when you’re standing your legs ache and when you sit down you want to stretch your legs.Walking back to the desk, he fell into his slightly more comfortable chair which spoke of his slight authority over the 30:1 ratio.Nice attempt. Check syntax. Very good.Good vocab. Please redoHis hand worked hard ,dejected from his mind, as it travelled through the maze of imagination and his eyes wandered between the lines of 7P1’s books. Marking had become an empty routine, like teaching, like living. Contentment found in routine. But as he looked up to his bookshelf to the top left corner he saw ‘The Eft collection by Robyn Evans’. He saw more than a book but a man. A man who knew when to let go, who knew what to hold onto and who listened to the whispers of his heart that guided him to his destiny.While he sat preparing for period 5, he remembered he must hold onto one day letting go.

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